US Post Office

Everybody hates the post office. They all suck. But this one seems to be one of the least sucky post offices I’ve visited. There’s rarely a line & if there is one, is goes by fairly quickly. The employees are quite nice & move it along.
I think one of the reasons this post office is not too busy is because it’s looks hidden. It’s kinda covered up by some trees so it’s pretty hard to miss. I’m not complaining. I’m glad it’s hidden.
There’s always parking upfront or if not, there’s parking in the rear.

Basically your run of the mill post office. 3 windows, so you would think the line moves quickly… but this is the USPS… so you never know.
The upbeat woman on the left (can’t remember her name) is pretty awesome. Very quick and efficient. Very friendly.
The guy who is in the middle is so so. Somewhat slow but friendly.
I would avoid the woman on the right. I’ve had more than one instance of attitude from her.
I guess 2 out of 3 isn’t bad though for the USPS.
There is a Philadelphia Pretzel Company next door if you need a fix. Just saying. Bonus.

My mail carrier’s name is Craig, my Post Office is Collingswood,
Craig has been my mail carrier for years now. He is so friendly, kind, and when I see him always ask how I am doing.
I feel very lucky to have him as my mail carrier. And after all these years he is like
family to me. Thanks Craig.
I have lived here for 42 years. And have only had 4 mail carriers. One was as nice and efficent as the other.
But Craig is # 1.
So please put your mail out for your carrier. Don’t let them cut down there wages. And loose their jobs. Remember they have been delivering your mail way before on line
banking and computers.
J. Garvin
Ardmore Ave.
Westmont, N.J.

It is the post office, not too much to say. The Postal Service gets a lot of grief, but they do a pretty thankless, taken for granted job.
People who work here are nice enough, and the location is very convenient (right by the train station, next to a pretzel store in case you want to get a treat, and newspaper boxes out front so you can get a couple different things done at once.
The biggest gripe is that it isn’t accessible 24×7, so you can’t buy stamps or other supplies for instance if it is on Sunday. Also, they don’t have one of those full machines that lets you do things like simple mailing of larger envelopes, packages, but it seems like most places don’t after some of the safety/​security scares of late.
PS We like our main post man too, very friendly.

I like to think that I live a simple life. Some might call me «old fashioned» or «out of touch.» No pods, pads, phones, fads, gmail, email, twits, tweets… I get my mail the old fashioned way. Paper and ink — real communication. No electronics, no wires, no impersonal, icy robotic correspondence. Flesh and blood, thought and emotion. I suppose I’m a bit naïve. In fact, a recent visit to my normally dependable post office had me thinking twice about my so-​called «old fashioned» ways. In fact, it was enough to get me typing on this computer.
I’ll come right out with it — I’m afraid of the post office. First, a bit of backstory. Someone keeps knocking over my mailbox. I say «someone» like I don’t know who it is. It’s those damn Richardson twins that live around the block. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on with those two. Two words: marijuana cigarettes.
If you can’t already tell, I’m a bit stubborn. They knock the damn thing down, and I just put it right back up. But hell, if those Italians had the nerve to rebuild Carthage, the least I can do is kept my mailbox upright. But I found that the mail slowed down to a trickle. I called the post office. They said something about how «Charlene can’t fit her hand inside,» and that «I really should get a new mailbox.» Well, damn it all to hell. The nerve to tell me to get a new mailbox. It’s those women mail carriers, I tell you. My old mailman, Pete, would’ve knocked on my door and put my mail right in my hand. That’s a real pro. Shame that there’s not much to him, after the Killington’s dobermans got a hold of him. So I drove down to the post office. If they won’t come to me, I suppose I’ll have to come to them. I was going to get a post office box. Those Richardson twins can’t knock that down. They gave me some forms to fill out; something like seven or eight pages of fine print. I just skipped to the end, checked off a couple of boxes, and gave it the ol’ John Hancock. Little did I know, this would be only the beginning.
The very next day, I drove to the post office again; this time to pick up the day’s mail. I walked through the vestibule into the circular atrium where all the post office boxes sat. I checked the keychain they gave me: #1231. I searched around, and found my box towards the rear of the atrium. But something was different. There was an etching screwed onto the front of the box. It read, verbatim: «MR. CHARLES we have are the solution you are waiting for! Medicine and poker… START you are year WITH a bang, MR. CHARLES!!» Needless to say, I was a bit confused. Who the hell is «Mr. Charles?» Medicine and poker? I looked around — not a soul. No Richardson twins, no nothing (save a ficus). I brushed my hand across the inscription. Some care had been taken with the etching. So why the poor grammar and nonsensical words? Who would take the time to do this? And why was my box the only one with an inscription? I was going to speak with someone at the counter. A real live person, in the flesh.
I exited the atrium and entered the adjoining counter area. No one was behind the counter, so I tapped the bell once. Like clockwork, a pudgy red-​haired woman came to the front. And that was it. No «hello» or no «can I help you?» She just stood there. I also noticed she had no name tag. The strangeness continued. After a few seconds, I started: «Do you work here?» It was a reasonable question, after all. She was wearing a postal uniform, and she was standing behind the counter at a post office.
Now this next part may sound like malarkey, but I swear to you that what I write from this point on is the God’s honest truth. She replied: «Congratulations, Cheryl! Bahama cruise time is on its way! Just click here! Make quick money, Cheryl! Sex!» I couldn’t believe my ears. «Excuse me?» I replied. «What was that?» Again, she replied with gibberish: «Adventure Friend! Get sex love! Pills and poker! Girls of your is dreams!» I was angry and confused. «Can I speak to your supervisor, miss?» I asked.
Again, like clockwork, a tall African-​American man came swiftly to the counter. And again, just stood there. Postal uniform, no name tag. «Okay, someone tell me what’s going on,» I demanded. The man replied: «PENIS STRENGTH IS YOURS, Diamond Frank! Viagra, super power! Penis is for you, just click here!»
I was so confused I was getting dizzy. I exited the counter in a hurry; I was getting my mail and then getting the hell out of there. I got to my weird box, grabbed the few pieces that were in there, and got in my car. I tossed the mail across the seat when something caught my eye. The top letter was cleanly typed, but in bold letters it read: «IT IS all yours JONES! Waiting is money! STUDIES SHOW PENIS LENGTH! just click here!»
I sped away and haven’t been back since. I can live without the mail.
And the phone. And the TV…

I love my post man. He makes sure my mail gets here early, puts packages inside my porch so they don’t get wet if the weather is bad, always compliments me on my yard when I’m out there working on it and he stops by. One of the few throwbacks to a simpler life and time in America is my pleasant postman. Yay John.
Our actual Post Office is, unfortunately, a similar throwback. No automation. One vending machine you can’t get to after hours (seriously, what good is it? If it’s during normal hours I’ll use the counter!) a few old post boxes, and either one or two clerks on duty (two when there’s no line, one when there are more than four people in line).
Ahhh nostalgia.